England Away

by John King

  – Tell your friends, he insisted when we went out this morning. Tell them that hooligans are welcome at the Hotel Kasbah.

  I go over to a table where Carter and Harry are sitting with three Millwall boys. I sit down and listen to the conversation, running through names and dates and a Chelsea-Millwall connection. The South London blood ties of certain characters. Harry knows them through some contract West London Decoration was doing. One comes from Tooting and knows someone else and before you know what’s happening there’s marriage and mates arriving from every direction. Funny how it works. Wouldn’t get that with West Ham, because they’re miles out down the Commercial Road. As for Arsenal and Tottenham, you won’t get any mixed blood there. No fucking chance.

  We hang around enjoying the atmosphere, and when I get hungry I order some food off a poofy cunt in a white jacket and black dickie bow. He minces off and comes back with a plate of cold sausage and Hitler only knows what other type of spiced meat. I take a bite and it’s not bad. Continental shit, but it’ll do for now. The poof opens another bottle of lager and hands it over. Pisses off. This is the life, in the heart of the fatherland whistling at the reich-birds hurrying past. Bottle of ice-cold lager in my hand. I lean back and look around. There’s more English drinking here now, with small groups coming along the street and seeing what’s what and who’s who. Popping in for a quiet drink. Being nice and sociable. Ticking over nicely.

  The old stone church stood against a background of new developments. It was similar to the ones you got back in England and somehow it had come through the Allied bombing. Glass towers had replaced burnt-out homes, businesses rising from the devastation. Harry remembered a picture he’d seen of St Paul’s in London, the dome rising through a wall of flames. Somehow St Paul’s had survived the German bombs. Everyone said it was a miracle, and he bet the people of the time had taken it as a sign that God had a soft spot for the English. It was good to have God on your side, and it must be true whoever you were, whether it was the Muslims waging holy war against Allied infidels, or God-fearing Born Again pilots strafing unbelievers in the Iraqi desert. Everyone was always right, and as a kid that photo of St Paul’s stuck in Harry’s mind, proving that in England’s and London’s case, it really was true.

  Here he was all these years later in the middle of Berlin seeing a mirror image. It was smaller because St Paul’s was fucking massive, but he stood and stared at this Berlin church all the same. The only time he’d been to St Paul’s was as a kid, but when you went overseas you looked at these things.

  There was a square further forward, but Harry turned the other way and walked under the shelter of a jutting roof that shielded a selection of small food outlets and several amusement arcades. The fast-food places smelt like their equivalents in London, the grease and fried onions not making much of an impression after the satay sauce of Holland. He looked in the arcades and saw a familiar collection of kids and youths, with older men and women thrown into the war zone. He spotted a gang of boys standing around Smart Bomb Parade, screens everywhere flashing cartoon characters and brightly-lit graphics. Good was fighting Evil all over the arcade, but Smart Bomb had caught the punters’ imagination. They’d had it in The Unity for a few months now. It was taking over. Whoever had the idea must be coining it, living a great life somewhere, straight down the travel agent’s for a one-way flight to the Philippines, leaving the wife and kids to fend for themselves as the genius inventor prepared to enjoy the spoils of war.

  Harry saw Nicky, her small frame popping up again, sitting on the edge of her bed with a cup of coffee and the photo album, running through the pictures one more time. He saw Nicky working in the Philippines with the not-so-good Catholic girls left behind by the Spanish, working the Manila go-go bars. Harry was pleased, though, because that was Christian Manila and Nicky was from Buddhist Thailand, and Smart Bomb wasn’t bothered with Asian trading zones. The people were hard workers and had the right attitude. They grafted and wanted to get ahead, so accepted low wages and saved hard. No, Smart Bomb Parade was focused on the East but somewhere a little nearer home, pinpointing the wicked General Mahmet, leader of a deviant oil-stealing regime, concentrating on another kind of warfare. It was an exciting game, matching moral justification with high kill ratios and negligible personal risk.

  Harry left the Germans to their war games and stopped at a pizza shop. He bought a big slice of ham and cheese from a skinny punk and went over to a bench, sitting in the sunshine feeding his gut and working on yesterday’s hangover, wondering where to go next. He wasn’t far from the Hotel Kasbah, and he smiled thinking of last night and this morning, the owner a fucking nutter doing everything he could to make the English invasion force feel at home. Berlin was a lot different to Amsterdam. It seemed more controlled in a lot of ways, but then you came across someone like Abdul at the reception desk, a reminder that Berlin was supposed to be a mad city. A big chunk of the Nazi party came from southern Germany and considered Berlin a centre of Mahmet-style deviance, so maybe he’d scout out something similar, but where did you start? He wasn’t looking for whores, because he’d had enough of that for right now. He was happy and didn’t want any hassle.

  – Alright? Billy Bright said, coming and sitting next to Harry. What are you doing?

  Harry had to think about that one. What the fuck was he doing? He was in Berlin and he’d read something about the place before leaving, about the music and clubs, investment pouring into a city busy building for a brighter future. It sounded good. But he wasn’t doing much except thinking.

  – Just having something to eat, Harry answered. What about you?

  – I’m going to see the bunker where Hitler committed suicide.

  Harry nodded and took a big bite of pizza. The cheese was thick and stringy, and a big blob dropped on his jeans.

  – Fucking hell.

  Billy sat down and Harry offered him a bite. Billy shook his head.

  – The bunker’s not marked because they don’t want people finding out where it is in case it becomes a shrine. They’re shit scared because they know there’s still interest, specially among the East Germans who were pissed on for years by the reds. They had to deal with the Stasi their whole lives so swung to the right. They wanted to have some pride so they looked around. All they found was the neo-Nazis. That’s why you get things like Rostock. People struggling to get by don’t want millions of Turks turning up and nicking their jobs. They want to get on with life and have some pride.

  – That Turk at the hotel’s alright, Harry said.

  – It’s not the Turks I’m talking about, Billy said. It’s people wanting to have some pride in their country and fighting back.

  Harry nodded again because he knew Berlin could be an extreme place. He didn’t want to get into a discussion about poverty-stricken, harshly-treated locals. He hadn’t been here long, but Amsterdam was more his sort of place. He was probably one of the exceptions, because the others would like the energy extremes brought. Now he was here, he wanted to get into the future instead of the past. Berlin was the future of a united Europe. There was no point fighting the inevitable. Harry was going to enjoy his holiday no matter what.

  Everywhere had its own atmosphere. He believed in these things, because when he looked at someone nine times out of ten he sussed them right off He could tell a lot about people by how they looked. If someone had mean eyes they generally turned out to be a cunt, and if someone was friendly they were usually generous and honest. Harry went with the feeling. People were prejudiced, but that was because they stuck with what they were told to see. You had to work things out for yourself. He thought about Nicky and knew it could be hard getting through the wrapper.

  – Eva Braun stood by Adolf right to the end. Imagine being stuck in the bunker with your woman and dog, with the Red Army getting closer and closer. They did the right thing and were dead before the scum arrived.

  Berlin wasn’t going to be easy. Harry understood that now, sitting on the be
nch with the smell of kebabs and the exploding rockets of the amusement arcade, and with Billy Bright doing a Nuremburg on him. No, Berlin was different, another planet to Amsterdam. The people had to deal with the same problems but Amsterdam was a melting pot, where the ideas blended together. Berlin, he didn’t really know, but could guess. The buildings seemed so clean, yet under the roof behind him there was dirt and grease. England was halfway between the two countries, trying to con itself everything was running efficiently, the same as in Germany, while those in charge were fucking useless.

  He saw Billy Bright sitting there like he was expecting something. Harry wondered what he wanted. The bloke was alright in his way, but went on a bit. Everyone had their views, but Billy’s weren’t the same as Harry’s. He didn’t give a toss about all that nonsense, just wanted an easy life, finishing the pizza and throwing the paper plate at a bin, missing and leaving it in the gutter. What the fuck was the bloke waiting for?

  Billy was a Barnardo’s boy and had never really got over the fact that his mum and dad had given him away. Harry had heard the story second-hand and never asked him what it was all about, because it wasn’t the sort of thing you brought up over a pint. Even if he’d been a close mate he would’ve found it hard dealing with something so personal.

  He saw Billy sitting there with his short hair and frowning face and thought of Nicky’s kid and how the little boy must feel stuck in an orphanage, with his mum on the other side of the world, on the game. He wouldn’t know about all that sex stuff, and so it wouldn’t matter, but he must miss his mum. Maybe he saw other kids and they had mums and dads and he wondered what made him special. In the picture the kid had light brown skin and Oriental features. He didn’t really stand out from the crowd and that was a good thing. It was better to blend in, keep your head down and not make too many waves.

  The monks didn’t look dodgy like some of the vicars you got in England, and the boy had a smile on his face. At least the kid was better off in a tropical paradise than a grey European city where it rained for months on end and the cold got right inside your bones. In Europe he’d go to a hard city school with none of the sun and calm he had in Thailand. Harry convinced himself the boy was happy and Harry felt good about that. Maybe one day Nicky would send for him and he’d go and live in Holland, the kid’s old girl sitting pretty in a smart apartment, or maybe she’d get a one-way ticket to Bangkok and take the train south, settle on one of the islands and live happy ever after.

  Harry thought about Balti and how he said he’d like to live in a tropical paradise one day, usually after a curry. Harry had dreamt about the tropics and wondered if it meant something, but it would be hard to give up everything because England was a difficult place to leave, with all the history and tradition nobody really knew about in any specific detail still strong enough to keep you tied down. Even though he moaned, England was home and the best country in the world, and that didn’t stop him wanting the best Europe had to offer as well. Harry stopped himself because soon he’d be standing in the square singing God Save The Queen with Billy Bright.

  According to the story he’d heard, Billy had spent the first ten years of his life in care before an elderly couple took him in. They were good people, but were old and the husband died when Billy was fifteen. He still lived near his foster mum and they were close. He’d been lucky, Harry supposed, because he could’ve gone through life without ever getting a chance. When the old girl got mugged one day coming back with her pension Billy went off his head. The attackers were black and the old bill never found them. She was knocked over and kicked in the face, and from that day on Billy was different. Harry didn’t hate blacks but there was nothing he could say to Billy. He didn’t necessarily want to change his mind, because he didn’t care one way or the other, but because a couple of blokes were scum didn’t mean everyone else was the same.

  When Harry thought about it, the Nazis wouldn’t have been too impressed with Billy. They wanted the same perfection as the modern corporations, and loved the sick experiments just like today’s scientists. Look at the experiments and it was going on right now. It was round the back door. But Billy didn’t give a toss about genetic engineering and artificial insemination, or whether the valves of a pig’s heart would mould with human flesh. Harry saw Billy celebrating victory against the evil forces of international Jewry and communism, having helped clean the scum from the pond, standing in front of the Leader who was focusing on a new element, taking another step towards perfection with the erasing of physical deformities. Billy would expect better.

  – Do you want to go and see the bunker? Billy asked.

  – What bunker?

  – The bunker where Hitler killed himself. We could get a taxi there if you want.

  – I thought you said it was buried away so nobody could see it, so it won’t become a shrine.

  – It’s just hidden, Billy said, thinking. I asked some of the others but none of them were interested. Said they’d rather have a drink. We’re going to East Berlin tonight and meeting up with these blokes from Leipzig. See if we can have a row with some anarchists or reds, anyone who’s up for it really.

  Harry shook his head and said he wasn’t interested either. He was going walkabout and tonight he was going to get a decent fräulein to suck his knob. Billy was obviously disappointed, then said what about Bang, they could all go there, take a big firm along and have a good night out. Harry had forgotten about the bar and the card that trendy bird gave him on the ferry. It was worth thinking about. She was well tasty and the boyfriend looked like a cunt. One of those sincere wankers who gave it the big one all the time but when it came down to everyday politeness was a slag. That’s the way Harry preferred to see things. It meant he might have a chance. She was a cracker no matter what anyone said, and he had to be honest that Nicky had been cropping up a bit too often. It wasn’t healthy and not something you read in the Carter training manual. Deliver your load and turn for home. It was the only way, but sometimes you had to be honest, and if Harry was totally honest what he needed was a good shag here in Berlin to burn away the memory of that Thai slag.

  Billy was going on about Adolf and Eva again, and how it must’ve been hard to shoot the dog, and Harry agreed but said he had to get back to the hotel. He didn’t have anything against the bloke, but he wanted to have a walk around on his own and go to that bar later, early evening maybe, after he’d seen some of Berlin. He was on a roll and didn’t have time for all that political shit.

  Three o’clock in the afternoon and the bars are packed. I’m fucked before we’ve even moved. It’s kick-off time and I’m feeling the ten bottles of lager. That poof cunt of a waiter has stopped coming outside because there’s hundreds of English on the pavement singing RULE BRITANNIA. Maybe his shift’s finished and the timing’s right. Let off the hook with some of his customers calling him a fucking German queer. We have to go inside for our drink, but at least there’s more staff behind the counter now. The owner’s smiling, everyone on the piss and enjoying themselves.

  I’m in the bar starting another bottle and spot this familiar ginger head. I blink and make sure. Standing there a few feet away. Haven’t seen the bloke for years. It’s this nutter from Derby I met years back watching England. I start to move towards him but suddenly remember an incident between Chelsea and Derby. It worked out alright and I’m pissed, so I tap him on the shoulder and after a couple of seconds he smiles. We shake hands laughing, running through what we’ve been doing and all the usual bollocks. The years vanish. He’s a good bloke. Running through Derby’s end-of-season rows while I think of the incident. It was at night and he slashed Facelift. Right across the arse. I should’ve said something but kept quiet. It worked out okay with the old bill coming along at the right time. Didn’t feel good about it and I’m glad Facelift’s not here. I almost start laughing, thinking of him with his arse slashed, stabbed in the gut. Mark and Harris are nearby and they don’t know Derby from Adam. It’s fucking mental and doi
ng my head in.

  We have a couple of drinks together, but I’m fucked. Tell him I’ll find him later on. Down the same bar. I go back to the hotel for the speed Harris has brought along from Amsterdam. That’s what he says – skunk in Holland and whizz in Germany. Must be the train journey or sitting in the sun for hours doing me in. The streets are baking and it just means you drink more. I follow Harris, Mark and Carter to the Kasbah.

  Harry was having a break in a bar, somewhere in East Berlin, because his feet were aching and he’d hoped for a repeat of that Amsterdam effort, where the girls were friendly and passed the dutchie, and where their Angel boyfriends were polite and bought you a bottle of lager. He’d struck lucky there, but this place was well quiet. He got himself a drink and sat by the window. His shirt was soaked from the walking. He must’ve done miles, and it had to be at least eighty degrees outside.

  He’d been for a wander around Zoo station, and then caught the train from West to East. It passed over a stretch of land where he guessed the Berlin Wall had been. There was a big tent on some wasteland, a circus or rave venue maybe, everything moving on with new freaks and new sounds. One minute the Wall was there and the next it was gone in a puff of dust and the thud of pickaxes, East and West united. The English press said there was a new German superstate in the making and some hinted that the old Prussian spirit was stirring, except it hadn’t really worked out like that, because instead of the goose-stepping they got love parades and techno drilling through the brick torture chambers, skinheads and punks eyeballing each other for the leftovers. He enjoyed the ride, getting off when his stop arrived.

  The first thing Harry saw as he came out of the station was a sex shop and some dodgy cunt selling burgers, a few rancid boilers pushing snotty-nosed kids in pushchairs. There were a couple of cartoon drug dealers leaning against a fence doing their best to look like drug dealers, with dark shades and greased-back hair. He was in the shade of the station, with dirt ground into the stone and the ticket hall dark and dingy, smelling of piss. The sex shop was small and seedier than normal, the sort of business that only ever survived showing the hardest porn, something you’d be hard pressed to find in Soho. A man came out in the regulation mac, looked up and down the street and shot off, examining the pavement. It was June and the temperature was in the eighties and this wanker was going round like he didn’t know the school holidays had started. Maybe they hadn’t, but if the England boys found out they’d probably do him like they did that cunt in Amsterdam. The English had standards to maintain. Even Harry knew that.